If you were looking for maternity yoga pants anywhere in the greater Boston area, be warned, I HAVE BOUGHT THEM ALL. For some reason it has ONLY JUST DAWNED ON ME, almost 26 weeks into this pregnancy, that the time of yoga pants outside of the home has come. I’ve never done this. Despite looking slovenly on hundreds of thousands of occasions, I have always had this feeling that leaving the house in yoga pants was verboten, akin to wearing sweatpants. I assumed I didn’t have the figure for them anyway!

SO MANY ASSUMPTIONS, DISPROVED. Also? I don’t care. We’ve established that pregnancy is a generally disgusting state of being for me, and since we reached a new low this week — that of angular cheilitis — and I’m smearing Lotrimin on my lips three times a day, let’s be real here. Should I be concerned about yoga pants? Should a person who regularly pees in a bladder protection garment, barfs all over town and smears JOCK ITCH cream on her FACE really be concerned about yoga pants in public? REALLY?

Besides, I’d forgotten that one of the small gifts of pregnancy — the only gift, really — is that once your belly eclipses your boobs, every single OTHER part of you looks delightfully tiny. For the first time in my life, I have an ass the size of an elf! A very large, elephantine elf, but compared to my belly, IT IS AN ELF’S BEHIND.

(Leave me to my illusions, friends.)

These are the things that make me wonder about people who claim to love pregnancy. If you love pregnancy, you have to tell me: Do these things just not HAPPEN to you? Do you not barf for nine months, pee through your pants and get YEAST INFECTIONS ON YOUR FACE? Or are you just made of tougher stuff than me?

Separately, and despite all of this horror, I often forget that I’m pregnant. I guess I’m just used to living this way, but sometimes I glance in the mirror and wonder WHEN my midsection got so FAT and my God, was I not paying any ATTENTION TO WHAT I EAT? Then I remember that oh, right, there’s a person in there (I HAVE TWO VAGINAS) and also, I barely eat, so obviously, I am pregnant.

Anyway, I have a question for you. What do you do for your kids’ birthdays? Sam’s birthday is March 7 6 (OMG, I got my OWN CHILD’S birthday wrong the first time), and we’ve only ever had a family party for Sam, and cupcakes for her little playgroup, but most of her friends have had capital-P Parties, with other kids and sometimes at outside locations. I don’t know, you guys, this is so hard for me because I just don’t see myself doing it, but then of course I FEEL GUILTY. And I don’t judge anyone who DOES fun/big parties for their littles at ALL — we love going to them — but I am generally a lazy mom, and also, she’s GOING TO BE THREE. Is she going to remember this? Or care? PROBABLY NOT.

(Small irony in this statement is that one of my first memories is of my third birthday party, held at — wait for it — Weiner King. Yes, Weiner King.)

So, ugh. I just don’t want to do it because it’s just not my personality to do so, but then I feel bad NOT doing it, like I’m missing my opportunity for her to have a good time, and everyone ELSE is doing it, but them I’m like SHE IS THREE, GET A GRIP, MY GOD.

At any rate, it’s time for my nightly salad of hummus, lettuce and cabbage with a drizzle of vinegar and some feta. Adam LOVES when I eat it in bed, as you can imagine.

Happy weekend!

*Bon Iver. I’m meh on the guy, but I try. Also, get it? Kind of like babies? BUT NOT AT ALL, REALLY.

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